


The Invisible Line

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, dub-con, hints of angst, mentions of Nathan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: Peter never expected he'd actually enjoy himself going out with Sylar. He'd just hoped they'd get through the night without fighting. But now his heart is pounding and Sylar is standing there so pointedly that it sends chills rolling repeatedly down his spine...





	The Invisible Line

Sylar waited out in the cold, his hands deep in his pockets while watching his breath cloud away from him. It was just after 7pm, yet the December evening was as dark and silent as the middle of the night. It wasn't too bad, though. Sylar hadn't been standing here long, just enough for his nose to turn red and his toes to start to lose feeling in the settled dusting of snow.

The street was serene and empty, as always, caught forever in an imitation of an unnaturally quiet night in the city. Sylar couldn't hide the anxiousness or exhilaration that warmed him from within, just at the idea of what could happen tonight. He honestly couldn't recall the last time he'd dared to look forward to anything like this. Just honest, innocent fun. His blood might have been pumping even more than it had during his last kill.

He'd tried to dress up for the occasion, if only to contrast his usual dark attire, but due to nerves and the lack of options had settled instead on merely putting in a little more effort than usual when grooming. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. It wasn't like it really mattered anyway though.

Right?

Just as Sylar battled with the urge to run home and change real quick, the door opened in the apartment building before him and Peter Petrelli emerged. He stalled briefly on the top step, as if surprised that Sylar was on time (seriously?), and gave a small smile that looked just about as unsure as Sylar felt.

Sylar was pleased to note that the guy had made an effort to get ready too. Sure, he was dressed as always in the same dark jeans and grey jacket, but it looked as if he'd attempted to do something about his hair before changing his mind. Now it couldn't seem to decide between sitting pushed back or hanging down by his face like normal.

It looked... different. Different, but nice.

Masking the sudden butterflies awakening in his stomach, Sylar tipped his head towards the direction of the street and raised an eyebrow. “Shall we?”

*

Sylar didn't wait for an answer before setting off along the street, leaving Peter to hurry to catch up to him. It was odd behavior to act so aloof now, after he'd been the one nagging Peter about this plan for over a week, but the empath didn't call him out on it. It wasn't as if he couldn't sympathise with the awkward absurdity of the evening, after all.

The playground of New York City was open to its only occupants tonight, watching and waiting as two pairs of footsteps wound down the street toward the centre of the maze. The men crunched through an undisturbed sprinkling of snow side by side, a reasonable distance between them, the familiar lack of other sounds pressing in. Only when the silence became unbearable did Peter clear his throat with more difficulty than it warranted.

“Where are we going?”

Sylar shrugged. “I dunno. This is your night. Where d'you want to go?”

Faltering for half a step, Peter almost laughed aloud at Sylar's 'big fun night' being so disorganized. It was so unlike the man who strived for order and control in every aspect of his life that it had to be deliberate. Which meant it was him being thoughtful so Peter could call the shots.

And maybe just because of that, he found he didn't want to.

“Let's just walk. See where we end up.” He suggested. And when Sylar merely glanced down at him with an intrigued eye, Peter wondered for the first time if maybe this evening wasn't such a bad idea after all.

***

The emptiness of Central Park swaddled the pair, branches stripped bare for the season and evergreens peppered in snow. The place was eerily vacant, almost surreal in its tranquility. Save for the dubious huff that reverberated through the trees.

“Are you _sure_?” Sylar repeated.

“I'm not doing it.” Peter smirked, crossing his arms.

“But it'll be fun.”

“You go then. I'll stay here.”

“Fine. Spoilsport. And I thought you were supposed to be the reckless one...”

The tall, slim form of the serial-killer slipped away across a glistening slash of ice, leaving Peter standing alone at the barrier. Wollman Rink looked huge without the swarms of people Peter was used to seeing every time he'd passed by in reality. But for once it wasn't a sad sight to be reminded of the many other lives that should be here but weren't.

A stark shape against the ice, beneath the cocoon of trees and the backdrop of the city skyline beyond, Sylar looked so out of place that Peter couldn't tear his eyes away. Of course by now he was used to the man's tendency to show off, but that wasn't what was keeping his attention this time.

Somehow he got the feeling that Sylar hadn't seen an ice rink up close many times in his life.

Attempting to skate in just his worn black shoes, the man could only be described as lanky and awkward in his movements: he barely lifted his feet at all and his hips swished from side to side as he attempted to propel himself forward as if by sheer force of will. Peter couldn't help but actually laugh out loud at the state of this once fearsome, all-mighty creature when he slipped and almost fell flat on his backside.

*

For a second anger and regret flushed through Sylar at being laughed at. But then he only grinned to himself at inciting such a reaction. It might have been one of the first times he'd ever heard Peter laugh like that with his own ears.

“You think you could do better?” He called, his voice echoing out across the ice.

“Uh, _no._ ” Peter laughed again, a merry sound that tapped pride and pleasure into Sylar with each individual chuckle.

“There's one way to find out...”

Peter scoffed humorously. “No way.” Sylar only replied to this with an outstretched hand, a silent invitation. Holding onto the barrier, Peter shook that luscious head of hair of his firmly. “No, no, no, trust me – you don't wanna see that.”

“I've already seen a lot more of you than that, Peter.” Sylar hummed with another grin, enjoying the bashful shuffle of the other man, even though he wasn't supposed to mention their secret aloud.

Peter Petrelli could fly better than the best of them and run like no one's business, and Sylar knew personally that he was strong and graceful when it came to other... physical activities. But skating? Not so much. Sylar remembered many past instances of failed attempts that didn't belong to his own memory, but pushed them away.

“C'mon, since when have you cared what I think?”

“I don't.” Peter insisted too quickly, the short-lived humour from before fading.

“Well there's nobody else here to be embarrassed about. No one else will see you, no one will ever know...” The empath visibly shied away from the same proposition that had won him over for a different reason, but Sylar just happily drank in the sight of him and knew he didn't want to let this go. Undeterred, he laughed and wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Peter.”

Reluctantly, the guy met his eyes from the other side of the barrier. He sighed. “Yeah?”

“Skate with me.” It was a demand, but it was soft and inviting. “Please.”

Once more Sylar waited for this man, his breath puffing out before him and his heartbeat heating him from the inside out. Finally, Peter sighed again, shook his head and stepped back from the rink. The winding kick of rejection was interrupted by him then leaping over the barrier, slipping slightly as his boots got settled on the ice. Then he slid his way over clumsily without another word.

So... it worked? Really? That was not what Sylar had expected. Peter just gave up on his doubts and came over here... because Sylar said please?

Something happened to the watchmaker, right then in that moment. While the cold nipped at his face and the moon shone off the ice, something began to change in the matted tangle of his feelings towards this maddening specimen named Peter Petrelli. All he could do was stare at the guy while he approached, _really_ stare at him, his chest swelling with surprise and affection and something else too, although he didn't know what to call it.

Was this how it felt, was this what everyone else took for granted... to simply be appreciated?

*

Peter didn't look up from his feet until he'd made his way over to his fellow prisoner, then lifted wary eyes with a 'what now' shrug. Sylar didn't bother to contain the happy curve that infected his lips and made Peter's insides constrict.

His hand was still held out, waiting in the air between them like an elipsis. Until, slowly, Peter took it.

Then the men just looked between their hands and each other, both as clueless as one another. Peter hadn't planned to get this far, and clearly Sylar hadn't thought much past this point. Yes, they might have already broken too many explicit boundaries by now, and Peter may have passed the point of no return long ago, but this was different from all that. This wasn't desperate and lonely and crazed and upset, and this wasn't an unspoken secret that would remain only inside the walls of their apartments until next time they stooped so low.

It was kind, and it was genuine, and it came from a place that neither man had shared with each other before. Peter didn't know how to feel about this coming from his brother's murderer. Jesus. Suddenly this felt like a much bigger deal than it had before he had caved and there had still been a good distance of ice between himself and Sylar. Somehow he was aware that he'd just crossed another invisible line out of the many held taut between the pair. And he had no idea how to move forward from here.

So it surprised himself as much as the other man when he pulled a face and leaned in close enough to stage whisper. “Uh, I hate to break it to you – _but_ _this isn't skating._ ”

A flash of something pure ran from the slight clench of Sylar's fingers into his eyes, and he smirked. Then suddenly the tension broke and they were just two guys trying to busy themselves on another empty night in purgatory. It didn't bother Peter as much as it maybe should have to let Sylar take the lead, pulling him further into the ice with cold hands and a warm expression that he didn't manage to hide behind badly faked ridicule.

Only when Sylar was miraculously better at this than he was before did the idea strike Peter that he may have been faking earlier, in order to ease Peter over here. He honestly didn't feel too bothered by it.

*

Yep. Peter was right. He really was bad at this. It would be an exaggeration to say that the men were _skating_ together, while really they just slid over the ice in their normal shoes without direction, rhyme or reason.

It was clumsy and it was all over the place, but strangely Sylar wasn't bothered by the lack of order or control to the situation. He was too busy dwelling on those rise of feelings inside that he still didn't know what to do with or what it meant, and too distracted by Peter's extremely self-conscious and awkward attempt to shuffle any which way on the ice.

Slowly the empath got into it. Only once he threatened to walk out when Sylar laughed too much, but it didn't take much to convince him to stay. Evening turned into night and all they did was mess around like kids playing without adult supervision, their cheeks getting red and hot and their jackets ending up discarded on the barrier, side by side. They tried taking turns leading the way, then they tried going it alone for a while; they “danced” awfully both alone and together; and even began chasing each other around the expanse of the rink until they ran out of breath (or rather, Peter attempted to catch up while Sylar smugly ran circles around him).

Sylar told himself the only reason he was doing this was because, as he'd said earlier, nobody else was around to see him. It didn't matter that he caught himself giggling like a fool, that he let go all inhibitions without the safety of bed sheets to hide in, or that Peter was clear-headed and aware for every gleeful second of it, just as much as Sylar was. Because this just might have been the most silly, pointless and amazing thing he'd ever done in his life.

Sylar's muscles were burning and adrenaline was coursing through his veins by the time Peter eventually caught him. Or really, Sylar let him win, but he would only admit to that if pressed.

“Gotcha!” Peter gasped, gripping Sylar's arms with a crushing grip, mostly to keep himself on his feet. Regardless, Peter swayed and wobbled and threatened to go down so Sylar grabbed him right back, his laugh husky in his throat now thanks to how often he'd been using it. “N-not so tough now, are you?” Peter panted, his face flushed and eyes alight and alive.

He looked so pleased with himself, and Sylar enjoyed knowing he'd done that for him. So, unable to bring himself to spoil that triumpth, Sylar just hummed a reply with an impressed arch of his eyebrows.

Slowly, the enthusiasm colouring Peter's fine features made way for something else, something slightly timid, and Sylar became extremely aware of his chest heaving against the other man's and their burning hold on each other.

It wasn't the worst thing to happen all evening.

Then Peter's breath caught and his fingers dug painfully into Sylar's arms. His eyes blew wide; he gasped; his balance finally gave way on the ice beneath him; and with a _thunk_ he fell into the watchmaker with a headbutt that smashed pain through Sylar's nose and sent them both crashing down to the ice, seeing stars.

And _that_ might have been the worst thing about the evening.

***

“No, no, hold it _forward_. The blood has to drain out.” Peter instructed, feeling only more awful when Sylar accommodated his advice, leaning his head forward while pinching his nose a little harder.

Having vacated the rink, the two men now sat on the cold ground with their backs to the outside of the barrier. Peter's forehead was throbbing and would likely bruise, but he didn't care nearly as much about that as the damage he had accidentally inflicted upon Sylar. He didn't want to read too much into that just now, so instead just sat here debating over whether he should lay a hand on the other man's shoulder or not.

*

“I'm so sorry, Sylar, I really didn't mean to -”

“Eight times is enough, Peter. I get it: you're sorry. It's fine.” Sylar groaned, his voice choked and nasal.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, he threw a lazy glance the other man's way. His face was swarming with aching heat and his eyes were still watering, a natural side effect of having his nose broken of course, but still he disliked the thought that it made him look weak. For fuck's sake, Peter. Just when he'd almost got the hang of it.

Sylar could have been angry with him, but he wasn't. He let it go because they'd been having a good time before the incident, and because he knew it was an honest accident. Peter Petrelli was _not_ the type of guy to backtrack on an action with denial and pretending he hadn't meant it, after all.

The younger man's face was unmistakably worried, concern and guilt fighting over his expression in a way that was unfamiliar to Sylar. They were far from strangers to hurting each other. Actually, Sylar couldn't even count the amount of times they'd made each other bleed over the years. But now that he thought of it, this had to be the first time Peter had ever hurt him by accident. Made a nice change.

And if it got Sylar all this attention and care, then maybe it should have happened a long time ago...?

*

Seeing as Sylar refused to go home and rest up just yet, there was nothing else Peter could do for him but feel guilty and keep him company. So that's what he did as the stars crept across the sky and Sylar's nose stopped bleeding, healing itself millimetre by millimetre. It didn't matter if the men could still heal because this was only a dream, or because somehow that ability was the only one to have remained with them, albeit a weak imitation of it. It just mattered that it worked at all.

In the midst of silence and gurgled sniffing sounds, Sylar's confession caught Peter off guard.

“This is the first time I've ever done this.”

Scoffing, he turned to his companion to weed out the punchline. “Right. I can remind you of at _least_ ten times you've had a bloody nose since we've been here.”

No smart one-liner was shot back at him, however, as Peter had expected. Instead Sylar only smiled softly as if to himself, ignoring the smears of blood drying down his lips and chin. “I meant hang out with someone.”

...Wait, what? Knocked speechless, Peter couldn't help but gaze at the guy, aghast. It sounded ridiculous, not only because he and Sylar had eaten together and read books or sketched or just sat in each other's presence countless times! Not to mention all the days spent side by side at the unbreakable wall. But he did understand. Tonight wasn't like the others. It was different, more... intimate. Real. It was like a more tentative version of when Peter had used to have friends who socialized outside of saving the world. And Sylar had never known this with anyone? Ever? In his entire life...?

“That can't be true.” He mumbled, stunned.

“I had a... timid upbringing. And when everything changed... there was never time to spend with someone that wasn't a trick of some sort. Or anyone who'd even want to.” Unashamed by sharing such insight to his person, Sylar gently wiped at his nose before wincing and turning it into a smirk that seemed to hollowly amuse him. “Outside of using me for my abilities, of course. In that sense I was the most popular kid on the block.”

This news only hurt Peter more, churning deep in his gut. It was an uncomfortable image to picture the Big Bad Sylar he had known going home between schemes to an empty apartment and an empty life, having no one and nothing but his powers for company. It was painfully sad, in a way that Peter wished it wasn't. Really, he could understand why nobody had chosen the egotistical mass murderer as a best buddy, but what about before then? Had he always been so lonely? Was that why he went out of his way to ruin other people's connections to their loved ones...? It was a hell of a bombshell at any rate, one Peter had no clue what to do with.

“Why would you tell me this?” He asked softly, unsure. Had he given Sylar a concussion along with a busted nose? Because otherwise he had no explanation as to why the usually so self-preserving man would have this sudden change of heart.

But Sylar just shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “I don't know. Just... wanted to, I suppose.”

He peeked at Peter again, the first touch of humility draping over him, and Peter's insides squirmed tightly. He still wasn't entirely used to catching glimpses of the man behind the all-powerful facade, even though it had been a long time since he'd seen it the first time. It still slightly surprised Peter every time he uncovered another segment of Sylar's humanity, but he guessed that said more about himself than Sylar, who had let most of his guards down long ago. He'd been working so hard to change, had come so far already. Even though the light at the end of the tunnel was still a far way off.

But now? Sylar felt safe enough here to want to confess this secret to Peter? The feelings this stirred were too heavy to catch all at once. And not only unfavourable feelings, but tons of unspoken connotations that Peter wasn't sure he wanted to get into right now.

*

Peter fell quiet without another word, and so Sylar didn't pry. He focused his attention on his stinging nose to stop his doubts from wandering and regret from creeping in. Maybe he'd been too hasty to open up, but it wasn't his fault that he'd gotten carried away after such a whirlwind evening. It was probably normal. It happened to everyone... right?

The silence stretched on and Sylar began to hate himself for being so pathetic out loud. He hadn't even decided if he was going to blame Peter for hitting him too hard or not when the man himself finally piped up.

“I've never danced with anyone before. If you can call what we were tryna do dancing. I always managed to get out of it somehow.”

That wasn't entirely true. Peter had danced with family members before – or at least Nathan remembered it that way at parties; when Pete had been young and all the aunts and cousins had adored him and fought over who got to scoop him up into their arms. When he'd gotten old enough to politely decline and watch from the sidelines, there had been many disappointed faces around the room. It wouldn't be surprising to imagine him doing the same thing to avoid dancing elsewhere in life. Especially now that Sylar had just seen the guy in action.

He smiled even through the throbbing ache of his nose. “Is that supposed to shock me?”

He must have heard Peter's startled, self-conscious laugh more times tonight than in all the years they'd known each other, but still it tickled him to hear it once more. It was quickly becoming one of the nicest sounds Sylar could remember.

The smaller guy's shoulders shook against Sylar's, and the killer found himself laughing too. Until pain and the danger of blood bubbles snorting out his nostrils had him cutting off quickly, Peter fussing over him again with another stream of apologies.

***

The walk home flew by. The air felt heavenly against both men's heated faces, they cooled down quickly and walked their leftover energy into a vibrancy that lit up the ongoing conversation. Peter hadn't even been watching where he was going, trusting Sylar to guide them without a second thought on the matter.

He didn't stop to realise that he might not have done the same even that morning.

Swept up in an emotional re-telling of the time Claude had almost got him arrested while trying to master invisibility, Peter didn't even notice the space beside him was empty until Sylar spoke after him.

“Peter.”

Confused, it took him a second to get his bearings and realise the man had stopped a few steps back... and that Peter had just walked right past his own apartment. Suddenly, stupidly, nervous, he crossed back to the building while trying not to acknowledge why he'd missed it the first time. Or that Sylar was hovering suspiciously close to the steps leading up to the door.

Despite having a surprisingly good time tonight, all of a sudden the confidence Peter had built up over the hours was nowhere to be found. He had never expected he'd actually enjoy himself so much going out with Sylar – he'd just hoped they'd get through the night without fighting. But now his heart was pounding and Sylar was standing there so pointedly that it sent chills rolling repeatedly down the empath's spine.

He didn't want the man to come up. Because that would change things from a casual night out to a... date. And Peter wasn't okay with that.

Stopping on the bottom step, he turned his back on the building and burned under the infuriatingly knowing gaze Sylar was laying down upon him. “Uh, this was...” the words 'fun', 'nice', 'enlightening' and 'special' withered on his tongue. “A good idea. You were right, after all. Some time out wasn't the end of the world.”

“I'm glad you think so.” Sylar's voice was soft and light, but he wouldn't let up with the way he was unwrapping Peter with his eyes as if to read and relish every thought that was spinning through his head.

Getting flustered, Peter backed up another step, then regretted it as soon as it brought him to an even height with the serial-killer. Only faint smears of blood remained on that face now and a bruise was fading before it had even fully formed over his nose, but even then he was undeniably breathtaking from up close. He always had been. Just in a different way. Peter couldn't actually remember when the trickle of reaction had changed in him from fear to something else that he didn't like to admit to himself.

“Well... I'm beat.” He said, smiling so it wouldn't seem so much like the rebuffal they both knew it was. “We should probably just head to bed. Uh, sleep! In, in our separate apartments, I mean.”

Damn it. Sylar didn't even pretend to hide the amusement that washed over his face at Peter's ungraceful struggle. “Alright.” He agreed.

But neither of them made a move to leave. Or to do anything else. Pretty sure that his knees were beginning to shake, Peter just stood and watched Sylar attentively while Sylar watched him right back. He knew exactly what would happen if he let this go on. Yes, Peter had already given into this guy a shameful amount of times. He knew how it felt to be held by him, exactly which buttons to press to make the guy come undone... Peter was more familiar with the unique design of that body than anyone else's in his life.

But tonight was different. It wasn't like all the other times before. Because if he relented right now, there would be no excuse or reason to hide behind other than he wanted to be close to Nathan's killer while totally sane and in his right mind.

And even the idea of a kiss goodnight terrified him blind.

*

Sylar, meanwhile, was thinking quite the opposite. Even though he'd slept with Peter more times than he had anyone else, somehow something so simple, so sweet and innocent as simply kissing him, right now, and nothing else, thrilled Sylar to the core.

It was a million times more exciting than if they'd smoothly continued upstairs to end their night between the sheets, because Sylar suspected it was forbidden. And fuck, he wanted it. Wanted to kiss him so badly.

He could so clearly envision himself leaning forward, cupping Peter's face in two hands and pressing his lips to the other man's, holding him steady and secure until Peter got over the nerves and let himself enjoy it...

Sylar could almost taste the kiss he'd never have. Because he wouldn't go through with it. He feared ruining an otherwise spectacularly successful night, or tainting the idea of the motion, or upsetting Peter after he had just relaxed into a semblance of a normal man without all his usual baggage. So going against the screaming urge inside, the watchmaker took a step back and allowed his mouth to lift at the corners.

“Night, then.” He murmured.

*

As soon as Sylar broke the moment Peter let out his breath. If only he could decide whether it was in relief or disappointment.

“Night.” He nodded, turning and tripping his way up the stairs before anything else could hold him back. He only stopped at the door because Sylar called after him one last time.

“Happy birthday, Peter.”

*

It took a while for the little man to glance back over his shoulder. “You should... put some ice on that.” He gestured at Sylar's nose, sending a tiny smile his way coloured with a touch of apology. Then he disappeared inside the building without another look back.

Sylar let out his breath. It didn't matter that Peter had ignored the whole reason for their outing tonight, because Sylar was sure he knew what was going on there. And he wasn't going to pry into his unpleasant connections to Peter's family (or the reason they weren't here to share the occasion), not when things were actually feeling pretty hopeful between the pair for a change.

Suddenly cold now that he was on his own, he dug his hands into his pockets again and backed away so he could see the window to Peter's apartment, waiting right back here in the same spot where he'd started.

*

Inside, Peter marched deliberately down the corridor away from the front door, his footsteps rebounding loudly around the stairwell. The echoes slowed before pausing. He only made it three steps back to the door before copping out and practically running to the stairs before he could turn back again.

Gritting his teeth, he slammed a fist over his heart repeatedly in hopes of making it stop hurting. It didn't work.

*

Outside, Sylar waited just long enough to see a light flicker on before heading on his way home.

It was only a twenty minute walk to his own apartment in the convenient, unrealistic layout of the dream city, but twenty minutes alone out here was still far too much. Tonight had gone much better than he had ever anticipated, but he couldn't help but resent it for making it even harder than usual to separate from the only other spark of life in the world.

Not for the first time, the remorseful murderer wished his companion didn't have to be such a stubborn bastard. But at the same time, the challenge of working for his seemingly unattainable approval was what made it all the sweeter. Sylar couldn't hate that trait anymore. In fact, he couldn't hate anything about the guy at all. Even though he was still as infuriating as always.

Wasn't that part of the beauty of it, though? Even though Sylar had _had_ Peter more times than he would ever have expected, he still wasn't _there_ yet. There was still more to uncover, more to find, to earn, and that was what gave him a reason to try harder. To be better.

But still... he wished Peter would give him some slack every once in a while.

*

The apartment felt colder than the ice rink had. Peter looked around the place that was supposed to be his only escape, suddenly feeling very, very alone. It was too impersonal in here, so empty and soulless and huge. It had been getting that way for a while, but tonight it was finally too much for him to ignore.

Peter hated that he felt lonely. That his home felt too big for just himself. That he wished the space around him wasn't vacant. But mostly he hated that he wished Sylar didn't have to go so far away from him.

Feeling uneasy, stomach still churning and his heart still refusing to give him a break, Peter crept over to the window and peeked outside. He watched the other man's shadow disappear down the street with a lump rising in his throat.

***

The next morning, Sylar awoke to a loud scraping sound coming from somewhere very close by. Curious, he dragged himself out of bed to investigate, still in his pyjamas. Framed through the open door of the apartment directly across the hall from Sylar's: Peter Petrelli was struggling to push a couch across the room. It was such a weird sight that Sylar couldn't wrap his head around it.

Leaning against the doorframe, he watched the smaller man struggle. “What're you doing?”

Peter startled at the sound of his voice, recovering himself enough to shake his hair out his eyes and answer breathlessly. “Redecorating. What does it look like?”

For a moment Sylar just continued to watch the guy's efforts. Then his eyes fell onto a solitary box sitting atop bare floorboards. A box that just happened to contain the very few items that Peter needed to live with.

And then he couldn't have made another sound for the life of him.

*

“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me out here?” Peter huffed, biting back the nervous grin that wanted to draw across his face.

Without complaint, Sylar pushed off from the door frame and took hold of the other side of the couch. While he was busy, Peter sneaked a peek at the guy to see what his reaction might be. Even if he didn't feel so close to him in that moment, he wouldn't have misinterpreted the delight that was trying to hide behind Sylar's heavy features.

And that was what made him think that, maybe, this wasn't such a stupid idea after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This chapter was originally planned as part of a multi-chapter Wall fic that I'm hoping to still get around to someday after I finish my current WIP “Tongues of Fire”, but I liked the idea too much to hold onto for much longer X)
> 
> This story takes place a few years into the guys' punishment, and if I ever decide to turn it into a multi-chapter fic then this one would sit roughly in the middle. Stay tuned if you're interested in reading more. But for now, I hope you enjoyed this as its own little oneshot ^.^


End file.
